


Gunpowder and Lipstick

by Coldest_Fire



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Ending, Au: heather is alive, Dubiously Consensual Sex, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Heather chandler is ooc, Heather has a Backstory (tm) and that would be addressed if I write a sequel, I just want to see someone support Veronica, Is it bashing if it's feasible for the character?, JD dies in the end and that's the only death, Modern AU, Post-meant to be yours, The relationship between Veronica and JD is emotionally abusive, The worst possible version of JD, dubious in that Veronica initiates it under duress, pre-chansaw?, pre-dead girl walking reprise, she would care about the attempted murder more- I know that, the dialogue here was surreal and I loved writing it, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldest_Fire/pseuds/Coldest_Fire
Summary: In which Veronica opens the door in Meant to Be Yours, and It Gets Worse.Turns out, the only way to stop him from blowing up Westerberg was to not break up, and Veronica feels like a hostage in her own life, with no way out. She's been a dead girl walking before, now she's more like a walking dead girl. Like there's nothing beyond the eyes.Not until an old face returns, and there's a chance at some closure.
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	1. It Doesn't

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve noticed in my own writing that I have a tendency to romanticize JD. JD is the guy who killed three people and was prepared to blow up an entire school. Yes, he took the bomb from Veronica, and that is a part of him too. 
> 
> I’ve done a really thorough analysis of the lyrics of MTBY and they read a lot like my emotionally abusive ex. The interspersing of guilt trips, and romanticized language, and threats of escalation (though she did that really differently from JD), reads very strikingly like my own experience. This piece is catharsis for me. I would not call it bashing, because I do not consider this out of character for JD. I can show you my full tilt-english major notes on MTBY if you’d like to debate this point civilly. 
> 
> One minor thing I will point out, returning to the theme of mental illness, is that in the MTBY scene, and another scene intended for chapter 3, JD gets very animated, very impossible to reason with or stabilize, and very intense. I go out of my way to avoid applying the word manic. I am bipolar, and I am not dangerous. My moods are wild and intense, and I am very consciously trying not to make them other people’s responsibilities, and to process them in a way that is also not harmful to me. I am rapid-cycling. I experience intermittent hypomania and depression. 
> 
> I can see an argument for JD being bipolar, that could be textually supported. I refuse to assign him my own illness, because I have seen very little positive rep for it, and I am not contributing to further vilification of it. JD is a bad person, and he uses his emotional volatility as a shield and an excuse. He prioritizes his own distress over the lives of everyone in westerberg. Whether or not he shares my mental illness, he would be a bad person. But for that reason, I am not treating him as bipolar, I am treating him as a very reactive person. I and other bipolar people deserve better representation. If anyone has questions about where I get any of these conclusions form, I will discuss it.
> 
> This fic was initially being posted as one chapter, and now it’s three. My longer warnings, becasue tags are ambiguous, are that JD is completely unsympathetic in this fic. Veronica has sex with him in a relatively coercive way, as he doesn’t directly coerce her into sex, but she does it to calm him down. I would not call it consensual by any stretch. There is on-screen emotional abuse. Please moderate your exposure to this if any of this will be harmful to you.

“when does it end, JD?”

“When every asshole is dead.” (Heathers, 2014)

“When Does it end, JD?”

“It Doesn’t.” (Heathers 101)

“Veronica, open the door, _please_ , Veronica, _open the door_.”

If she didn’t breathe, he couldn’t hear her. He couldn’t find her. Maybe she could wait him out.

“Veronica, please, I don’t _want_ to fight anymore, I can get them out of your head, and we can be together again. It can all be over. They’re so far in you don’t even know what they’re doing to you, but I do. I love you, Veronica, like no one else _can._ I know you, I’m meant for you, come on…”

She cowered in the corner, as far from the door as she possibly could, gripping the croquet mallet tight enough she could feel her heart racing in her fingers. She was ready to hit him when he broke down the door. Maybe if it stunned him enough she could disarm him.

And then what? Did she have it in her to shoot him if it came to that? Could she kill him?

“Veronica, don’t make me break this fucking door down. You know I will. All of Westerberg couldn’t keep us apart, and you think a couple inches of cheap wood will?”

She crept towards the door, thinking maybe making the first move would get her a little better odds. Counting down, she could hear a swirl of her own thoughts, frantic, trying to tell her what to do but all blending to an unbearable cacophony. Heather, Kurt and Ram were dead because of her, and she was going to end that here tonight. No one else was going to die, except her, and she was damned well dragging him down with her. She had it in her to do that.

She slammed the door open, and hit him hard with the mallet the instant she saw his face. Instead of staggering back, he lunged forward, shoving her into the wall, the ice-cold metal off his gun finding her chest, biting into her skin through her shirt. Her breath caught. It was over here. Point blank. She couldn’t take him with her if she was dead before her body hit the ground.

Her eyes were wide, frantic, searching for anything of the JD she knew, but his dark eyes were wild, too far gone to hear words. Any protest got her shot.

She kissed him like it was an act of violence. It was the only language he spoke. He dropped the gun, the thud against her floor startling them both. It got her a chance. She flipped them,shoving him into the wall, and forced her lips against his. He kissed back with the same desperate fervour as he’d had when he was ranting and raving about killing everyone in the pep rally. The adrenaline started to slow. Westerberg never had to know they were seconds to midnight on the doomsday clock, and she dragged them back. 

He tasted like nicotine and blue chemical slush, and she was nauseous. The heart hammering fear retreated into her stomach, where it sat like a rock, and tried to displace the rest of its contents into her throat. Wouldn’t be so convincing if she threw up in his mouth. It would be a little vindicating if he gagged on her like she gagged on him.

She hiked up her skirt, and threw a leg around his waist, grinding against him. The more into it she acted, the easier it would be to keep him from going through with it. The more he thought he had her.

She had to wonder, did he ever intend to blow up the school, or was she always the only hostage involved? She bit his lip, poured out the anger she had with him—this kiss was violent. It felt like passion to him—what was passion if not destroying the person you crave?

What she did after felt disgusting. She fucked him against the wall, glad in the same pocket he carried his gun in, he had a condom. They didn’t take much off, she unzipped his pants, and dropped her panties under her skirt. She didn’t want him touching her.

It was the best way she could think of to defuse him. Her body just felt numb, like there wasn’t anything past the skin. He wanted her. He bit back screams, because downstairs, her parents didn’t know their only child was fucking a monster. They also didn’t know how close they came to losing her. She rode him hard enough that he couldn’t see what her eyes did, and wouldn’t see the way she cried after it, when she excused herself to go clean up before bed.

People would call her a hero, not because she really felt like one, but because heroes did things that fucked them up, and no one ever felt like they had to give back. Veronica just wanted to sleep. She just wasn’t ready for the bodycount. This was less shitty than knowing she killed 200 people by staying in a closet.

When she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t understand her own face. She saw features, puffy and red, and eyes that leaked, eyes that looked like they were still backed into a corner. She took a towel, soaked it in cold water and pressed it to her face, to make the swelling go down, and then painted a little concealer around the eyes. Heather Chandler taught her this trick the first time they went to a Remington party, and she’d caught Heather in a more vulnerable moment.

When she returned to the room, she lay behind him, because if her makeup didn’t hold, he wouldn’t see it. He talked about big ideals, fate and destiny, and the rests of their lives. How he couldn’t live without her and shit. Veronica pretended to fall asleep. It was the only way not to scream at him. She’d ignore him, if she wasn’t able to push him out of the bed and call him a dick. The reason there was nothing under the skin was because her body was sustaining his.

She didn’t think she could sustain him if they kept this up. He climbed through her window three more days that week alone. She found a routine. Keep the talking to a minimum, fuck his brains out, spoon so he couldn’t see her face. She learned to agree when he talked about their love, and worlds changing. She didn’t care what he was saying anyway, and he could _say_ anything. He’d promised her once they’d be normal seventeen year olds.

The dead of the night was the hardest bit, having to feel him. He smelled like cigarettes, scraping up the insides of her lungs. She couldn’t sleep, no matter how early she feigned it. He was there, odious against her body. She lapsed into just barely enough sleep not to die. Not that it mattered to her, if not for the 200 people who’d go out with her. She had seventy-some years of him, and no escape. Veronica was dead even if she was up and walking.

JD was a terminal infection. He got stronger, more emphatic, more vibrant. He looked less exhausted than she’d ever seen him. It was killing her. She couldn’t eat, enough so that Heather Duke actually tried to help her. Her eyes were glassy, lost into the bags beneath them. Her grades dipped—not dived, because maybe, maybe she could escape him if she got into a decent college, and he got expelled from it when they wouldn’t tolerate his shit. When he offered to help her in her classes, because she probably had a weird flu or something, she denied him. This was her shot. Heather, Heather and Martha disappeared from her life, as she ghosted them, ignored texts. It was risky to care about people—if they found out, or she pissed him off.

It hurt, in particular, to ghost Mac. She was still coping with Kurt, Ram and Heather being gone, and Veronica cut her out last, once she was sure Heather had other friends that would take care of her. She set up movie nights for Heather and Martha, and watched her go back to the cheer team, and start acting like herself again.

Her parents also couldn’t know, so they watched with increasing helplessness, as their daughter haunted their house.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, she fantasized about killing him. It wasn’t wrong anymore, she thought, to eliminate a parasite. It was the only way she could live without Westerberg dying. She thought once, while on top of him, that if she got him into strangling, she could carry it too far and break his Hyoid. It would get him out of her.

One night in the bathroom, she picked up the drain cleaner. _I’m more of a no-rust-buildup kind of guy myself,_ he’d said. Maybe he should try it. She knew how much Heather had to drink, and it was the same colour as his slurpees. If she froze it just right, it would look like one. She’d forge him a note. She wrote that note, and then, reading it back, she just felt numb, the note was from the person she thought JD was. She sat, cross legged, and tore the note into little pieces, and then flushed it. Too risky, she decided, if he didn’t take a big enough slurp, he’d know what she was doing.

She looked back up in the mirror, and her eyes, which she didn’t realize were teary, were somehow so hard there was nothing past the surface. Whoever said eyes were the windows to the soul didn’t consider people could brick them up.

“Veronica,” he called, through the bathroom door, “are you okay in there?”

“Yeah,” she replied with a forced laugh, “it’s embarrassing. Heather taught me this whole skincare routine, and I’m testing it out. Go back to bed, I’ll be there soon.” It was disconcerting how normal her voice sounded, even as it felt like her throat was closing between silent sobs.

This was her life.


	2. Three Months of Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica is called to go meet Heather and Heather, to go see Heather at the hospital.

"I'm really more of a no-rust-build up kinda guy, myself."  
"Don't be a dick, that stuff would kill her."  
"Thus...Ending her hangover"  
  
-Heathers, 2014

"You just killed my best friend"  
"!and your worst enemy"  
"!Same Difference"  
2014 ,Heathers-

“Veronica!”

Damn, she thought she’d properly ghosted Heather, but here she was, being followed by her like a golden retriever. Somehow, that felt worse than being forgotten would. She knew how hard everything had been on her. She wished she was there to support her. The best she’d been able to do was to get her and Martha to be friends. They could take care of each other. It was safest for everyone.

She didn’t respond, facing the inside of her locker as Heather bounded up. “Veronica, what’s up with you?” She asked, “I know you’re in a new relationship and all, but you can’t just disappear on your friends.” She folded her arms, resolute. “It’s been _three weeks_ since I’ve been able to have a real conversation with you, and you’re ignoring your texts. _Again._ Did Heather and I do something to upset you, because I swear, I didn’t mean it. You’ve been a good friend, after, you know?”

Veronica took a deep breath, and turned to face her. “Sorry Heather. I, uh,” she flailed wildly for an excuse, sighting her AP English anthology, “I’ve just been so busy between JD and class. He’s kinda intense, and he wants to see me a lot, and you can ask Heather how much English is kicking everyone’s ass with postmodernism right now.” Which, she was sure was true. She’d barely skimmed the reading. Virginia Woolf wasn’t for the severely sleep deprived. A room of one’s own hit too close to home. She'd never have that. 

Heather didn’t seem to hear the second part of that sentence, “I know you and JD are all…” she wrapped two fingers together to demonstrate the lack of space between them, “but you seriously look exhausted, and I think maybe you should ask him for some space or something. Seriously, Veronica, I never see you with anyone else anymore, and that’s not healthy. That’s why Kurt…” she trailed off, and her voice was fragile when she started to speak again, “that’s why we used to still eat lunch with our own friends. You can’t spend _all_ your time together.”

If only she knew that Veronica didn’t even get to _sleep_ alone anymore, or that she’d been jumping him to avoid having to talk. She wanted someone else to understand. She turned back away from Heather, tipping her head against the locker shelf. One breath later, she was ready to answer. “I know that, Heather, it’s just—he wants a lot of company, and I guess I get worried when he’s alone.” Worried about everyone _but_ him, but that was too truthful to be said.

Heather made a sympathetic noise, before she admitted why she was really here. “Anyway, Heather says to haul ass to her jeep, _pronto_ , and we’re already _not_ pronto, so lets get going. And also maybe throw some concealer on really quick, under your eyes. You look a little bit dead. But I can do that in the car.”

Veronica was about to respond with a default, “how very,” when she processed Heather’s words. “No, Heather, I can’t tonight. I have to get home.” JD had skipped last block, and she knew that meant he was already at her house, lounging in her bed, probably waiting for her to throw the door open, then shut, and then mount him.

“You have to tonight. I’ll explain it in the car, but it’s about _Heather_.” The way she said her name, Veronica felt a pang. Heather Chandler. Maybe the life support, induced coma, and all the various mouth and throat surgeries hadn’t been enough, and her parents had finally accepted that she was gone. As her murderer, Veronica owed it to her to go, and she’d tell JD later that it was to make sure no one knew they were there.

She didn’t say a word, just dragging herself along behind Heather. She had half a mind to confess to it all once she got to the hospital. There was always a cop in the ER that she could talk to. When they made it to the parking lot, Heather Duke was leaning on her Jeep, mouth set in a hard line of distaste.

“God, Veronica, you look like hell,” she remarked, to which Veronica shrugged, and got in the passenger seat. It wasn’t helpful to tell her that she was in Hell anyway, even if Heather would just ask her if emo was sexually transmitted.

Veronica mumbled something, and Heather added, “you were way hotter when you were one of us.” As she hopped into the driver’s seat, and Heather got into the back.

It would not solve anything to tell Heather that everyone would die if Veronica decided to get some fucking sleep. It wasn’t Heather’s fault she’d climbed in his window after their party. It wasn’t Heather’s fault that she couldn’t get out. She just shook her head and asked, “thought you two couldn’t be seen with me. Where are we going?” Even if she knew it was the hospital, she had to tell JD something, and this would tell her how long she’d be gone, and how bad he was going to overreact.

If he thought she was running away, and threatened her family because the Heathers decided mall interventions were in order during the funeral plans, Veronica was going to scream.

“So, remember how Heather’s family was totally freaked about what happened, and they took her to the hospital, even though she was _probably_ gone?” Heather started from the backseat. “And so they had her all plugged in on all those machines and stuff, because they weren’t just gonna let her die or something, but the doctors were like super sure she wasn't gonna come back, so they called like three doctors from other hospitals, and it was this _whole_ ordeal?”

No, Veronica didn’t know. She’d avoided news about Heather. It made her feel worse, watching the Chandlers do increasingly desperate things to save their only child. She’d tuned out. She was sure there was no Heather left in there. She’d done that, and everything they went through, from selling her dad’s fourth car to afford treatment, to Heather’s mom coming to see them to ask if any of them had seen this coming, so blindsided, was her fault. Mostly because Heather-mythic-bitch-Chandler _wasn’t_ suicidal.

“Heather, get to the point. I’m ten minutes away,” Heather urged, actually turning around like she was shoulder checking to look at her. Veronica was never sure how Heather managed to drive that distracted and have a clean accident record.

Then came the moment if clarity. The autopsy wouldn’t convict her, but she could confirm that she was there if she identified the brand of drain cleaner. She could go to prison for a long, long time, and be free of him. She had the worst visual of the way her mom would cry, finding out her only child was a killer, and made a mental note to write them an explanation. Something to help them live with that, close enough to the truth that they’d understand she didn’t do it on her own.

Heather continued, “so anyway, yesterday, she definitely squeezed my hand, so I talked to her for like two hours, and today, Heather’s mom called me to tell me she was all confused and stuff, but she was awake, and she wanted the three of us to come see her. And yeah, she exiled you and everything, but Heather _really_ liked you, and I thought maybe she’d still want to see you.”

“How very,” she replied absently, preparing herself for the conversation that would ensue when she got there. Maybe she’d remember, and it would go down in one screamed accusation, and she wouldn’t even have to say it until the cops got there. She wished Heather wouldn’t be in the room, after the conversation they’d had in the bathroom. It wasn’t fair that the same girl that stopped her was the girl that killed three of her friends.

Like clockwork, she got a text when they were close enough she saw the hospital signs, “curious shortage of girls coming through your front door rn?” And then another, “Ronnie, aren’t you coming home? It’s 4pm. My dad’s out, I thought we could head over to my place for the night. Already told your parents I’m driving u to Martha’s for the night.” A couple minutes later came, “are you shutting me out? Look, I get that you’re still upset from what happened last week. You’re the only one that can stop me, Veronica, and I know that scared you, it scared me too. It’s not who I am when I’m with you, please, I need you to see that.” She just stared at her phone as though it was alien, tiredly watching the texts pile up.

She knew the messages would get worse if she ignored them, but she was tempted to just so there was a paper trail to make sure he went down with her. A couple seconds later came, “After what Heather, Kurt and Ram did, I might have to come find you to make sure you aren’t in trouble. I don’t think any of us could recover if something happened to you,” and that read like a threat, but he was too paranoid to say it over text.

Several more specific messages later, Heather rolled her eyes as she steered her jeep into an impossibly small parking stall, “god, Veronica, you’ve been with us for like 20 minutes. Tell stalker boy to get a fucking life for once. He’s honestly getting creepy.”

If only she knew.

Veronica shrugged, “he’s just worried,” she lied, before sending JD a text, “Fleming is holding me hostage, RIP. Worried about the shit that happened at her awful pep rally. I’m doing damage control. Be home as soon as I can.” She added a couple of blue heart emojis for good measure, and hoped he didn’t decide to check out her cover story. He’d hate to know she was with the Heathers. She then added “damage control sucks. Make it up to me when I get home?” And a couple more hearts, and a couple of kissy faces. Just to really drive home the lie, and get him thinking about other stuff. He probably thought she was the horniest girl he’d ever met because of how much she’d rather just fuck him than talk to him. Fucking wasn’t a threat to national security.

She ignored his response, but not, apparently fast enough to avoid Heather swiping her phone, and scrolling through her recent texts. “Jesus Christ, Veronica. What’s his damage?” she demanded, skimming through them while Veronica tried to grab it back. “What an asshole, you’re not allowed to have friends or anything?” She asked, handing Veronica her phone back. Veronica figured Heather would hate him just a little more if she found out one of those texts was actually about mass murder.

_She’d leave that bit out_. As they left the car to get to the hospital reception area, Mac chattered about how she got what Veronica was going through, because one of the guys she’d dated in her junior year was majorly weird, even though he was hot, and she had to block his number. Veronica wished that was ever an option.

They took an elevator up to one of the higher floors, and all had to sign in on a little clipboard, before being told where in the unit Heather was. She’d only recently been transferred from the ICU. When Veronica got near the room, she felt like she was made of ice and lead. It was supposed to be over when she entered, but what if it wasn’t? What if Heather only had enough to land her in prison, and JD made sure she was dead the next time, alongside everyone else. This was precarious, but she was going to do everything she could. He wouldn’t be ready to cover up after her testimony. She could forge notes from him.

Heather Duke pushed her into the room, and there, hooked up to probably a dozen IV lines, was Heather Chandler. Her blonde hair was straighter than it usually was, but her eyes were just as sharp as ever. Her lips were a little bloody, but seemed to be healing up normally enough. Strangely, she didn’t look as different without all the makeup as Veronica had expected, a little younger, a lot less intimidating, but still like Heather. Her first words to them, when they entered sounded like herself, albeit with a hoarse, gravelly voice, “god Veronica, you look more dead than I do,” she remarked.

Veronica had to laugh. It wasn’t her regular, awkward laugh, but something almost hysterical that made Heather and Heather exchange an awkward look behind her. When she finally recovered, she shot back, “one of us just got three months of sleep.”

Heather seemed startled, and Veronica wondered if she was the first person to tell her how long she’d been gone. She pointed at her two closest friends and said, “Heather, Heather, I need a word with Veronica, _alone_.”

Neither could leave the room fast enough. They knew what that voice meant, to an _ex-somebody_.

To Veronica, it meant she was _finally_ getting some rest.


	3. Dead Girls Do It Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica talks to Heather Chandler, and finds an unexpected exit strategy, and an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all my epigraphs are text from Heathers, but this one nearly ended up being the exception. I was listening to Vanity/Rot by Lacey Sturm, and there was a line, in vanity, "But what you call love is destroying my life and it's destroying your soul If you ever had one--I don't even think you even know what it means to love or to be loved" A lot of Vanity is very fitting, and if I ever write another JD fic with this characterization, I'll be using another line as the title. 
> 
> As mentioned, Heather Chandler is ooc. I wanted her to take Veronica's side. I do my best to make her sound like herself even if I know someone who isolated a girl over wrecking a prank is unlikely to forgive attempted murder. Also, I am taking the liberty of having her throat and lips, and mouth not that damaged, because I want most of the consequences of being with JD to be things that are fixable. 
> 
> I might write a chansaw fic some day, that takes off from this fic. If I do, I'll call it a "series" and you'll find it here. I might also write one where JD was never there. Or a DGW fic where it's Heather. I don't know. Taking Ronnie away from JD feels so good. 
> 
> One day, I may write a more sympathetic JD again. Right now I'm not ready for that. 
> 
> I hope the person who started this whole thing knows who she is, reads this, and knows how much of this is autobiographical. If she thinks it's okay to hold JD over me in an attempt to strong-arm me back, then I want her to know what her JD is. She doesn't have an Ao3 that I'm aware of, and if she did, I wouldn't tag her. But I hope she sees and I never know more. To clarify my identity in case you're her, you were with me for 5 years, and 2 provinces, from when I was 16 to almost 21. Your best friend asked me for the truth. You left my D&D campaign. That should be enough that you'll know I'm vaguing you. 
> 
> Anyway, to my other readers, who I appreciate infinitely for going on this trip with me, thank you.

"Veronica's running on, running of fumes now,  
Veronica's totally fried  
Veronica's gotta be tripping on Shrooms now,   
Thinking that she can hide."  
~Heathers, 2014

"Honey whatcha waiting for, welcome to my candy store  
time for you to prove you're not a pussy anymore."  
~Heathers, 2014

When they were alone, Heather propped herself into more of a sitting position. “Asshole killed me, didn’t he?” She asked, with absolutely no preamble, “that would-be school-shooter you walk-of-shamed all the way to my house? What was that he put in my cup?”

Veronica almost sighed in relief, sitting down in the chair across from the bed. “Drain cleaner,” she admitted, not wasting her breath on explanations. This was all going to be over soon. Maybe she’d even get a lesser sentence if she was cooperative and sold him out to the cops. She didn’t expect to get out any time soon.

Heather made a disgusted noise, “is _that_ why you look like shit? I hear waking up beside a monster will do that to a person.”

Veronica laughed shakily, “somehow, that’s…pretty much exactly why. It’s… It’s been harder to stop him lately, and he’s- well, he’s _worse_ now,” she admitted. It was weird talking to Heather about her own attempted murder. This wasn’t what she expected. Heather had to be on some _wild_ drugs right now. 

Heather shook her head, “oh, Veronica. Assholes like him don’t change. Or, they do, just _not_ for the better,” she patronized her, “what else happened in Westerberg? People keep acting like I killed myself. They’re sending me to psych once they’re sure I’m not fucked from your boyfriend’s little mixed drink.” That, she seemed annoyed at, as though it was a greater slight on her that people didn’t think she was bullet-proof than that Veronica had literally been a part of her attempted murder.

“Heather went to every news outlet ever, while Heather freaked. Then Kurt and Ram died, after you did, and that kinda pushed her off the edge. She’s okay now, but go easy on her. It’s been really hard. And Martha just got out of the hospital herself, so maybe give her a break too, once you go back.” She was certain she wouldn’t be there to run damage control, and there were still people there she cared about. Still people worth protecting. She wished she’d felt like this earlier, when protection was an option.

Heather seemed almost lost in thought for a second, “of _course_ Heather did. I’d have done the same shit to her. She looks better though, even if I bet she _had_ to buy an entirely new wardrobe. Eating does that to a person.”

Veronica couldn’t help but interject an indignant “Heather!”

To which Heather laughed, and asked, “what, you going to bitch at the nearly dead girl for calling it like it is? Besides, I said she looked better, didn’t I?” Before getting abruptly serious, “And Heather, you said she went off the edge. Who stopped her?” She cared about them, even on killer drugs, and back from the edge of death. It made Veronica feel worse, knowing Heather had some kind of heart.

If Heather had a heart, she knew this would get her accolades she didn’t deserve. “I did. Heather would have, she just… had a lot going on,” Veronica lied, “Being you was kind of a new experience for her, and she didn’t get what that kind of power did to people. Mac’s okay, now. She’s back to the cheer team. She and Heather are back to being friends, and from what I’ve seen, they’re mostly normal. I think it must have freaked Heather out, if she found out.” She kept the focus on them, because this was supposed to end with her in a holding cell. Heather couldn’t stop to have doubts about turning them in.

“Kurt and Ram. More of your boy toy’s work?” She asked, and Veronica nodded. Heather laughed. It was as hysterical as she sounded when she laughed at the coma joke. A little high pitched and rough—her throat was not ready for that kind of strain. When she was done laughing, then choking, she looked at Veronica, whose face was contorted in confusion. She paused a moment, just letting it all sink in. “I fucking _can’t_ with you, Veronica. One minute Martha is too good for us to fuck with, and the next, you’re shacking up with the school shooter to be?”

Veronica didn’t register she was crying until her vision blurred. She supposed this was just a breaking point, the absurdity fading to that terrible sinking feeling that she wasn’t who she ever thought she was before. “He threatened the rest of Westerberg. I had to go with him to get rid of the bombs like a week later. Stole them from his dad’s demo company,” when Heather cursed under her breath, Veronica continued, “I broke up with him two days earlier, and he forged a mass-suicide note. I’ve kind of been living with him since. It keeps him in control.” Her hands started to pick at the vinyl on the chair, when she kept going, “Heather, I don’t know if you’re mad at me, or too high to give a fuck, but two people are dead and you were almost the third. I need this over.”

Heather sighed, “Veronica, you’re so goddamn dramatic. Is there proof any of that was you?” She asked.

Veronica answered without a thought. “The notes. I wrote both of them. I—with you I just panicked, okay, and I took a bunch of the stuff you said when you were drunk and accidentally called me instead of Heather, or Heather, and I tried to make it sound like the you anyone else had ever talked to.”

Heather’s eyes narrowed, “you _exposed_ me? How much did you tell them, Veronica? God, ever hear of respecting the dead?” She demanded, the closest Veronica had seen her to being the mythic bitch.

“You were lonely, and no one saw—no one saw anything to you at all. You were more than the stuff you did with Remington guys—but I didn’t talk about it much. I willed your stuff to charity—none of it’s gone, cause you’re alive. You felt bad, cause you could have done better. There wasn’t a lot of substance to it,” she explained. This wasn’t what she expected Heather to object to.

Heather shook her head, “the shit I told you was private. And I knew I was telling _you_. You’ve seen Heather and Heather, do you actually think I’d have told them? Heather would have thrown me under the bus if she’d known about Remington, and Heather would have tried to ‘help’ and made shit worse.” She paused, almost like she had to think about something. Veronica didn’t blame her. If that had been trust and not a mistake, it must hurt, finding out the girl you tried to tell all these secrets to got you killed. “Help me get your little domestic terrorist off the streets, and I’ll tell them I wrote it a year ago, and didn’t go through with it. Was he armed when you wrote Kurt and Ram’s note?”

Veronica couldn’t process what was happening, or why Heather was trying to keep her out of prison. “Two guns. Loaded with _Ich Luge_ bullets.”

Heather laughed again, “ _fuck,_ Veronica. You’re telling me two halves of one whole idiot would be alive if you took German?” She quipped, “you could have written that one at gunpoint. We have to prove what he is, if you’re not going down with him.”

Veronica made a confused noise, but Heather was already well into planning, “so we piss him off badly enough he puts the bombs back, and call the cops on him. You have to be good enough at that act to make them really buy it, but you already look like shit, so that’s going for you.”

Veronica stared at her a little longer, trying to understand what was unfolding. “Why are you protecting me?” She finally asked.

Heather shrugged, “it means you owe me your life,” she quipped, before getting serious, “Veronica, I’ve been with some shitty guys in my life. At least a couple who fucked me in the head. I was going to tell you next time I drunk dialled, if you kept a secret the first time. You kill anyone ever again, and I’ll tell the cops you threatened me while I was in the hospital to help you cover it all up. When you go get Heather and Heather, we’re going to post a pic of me recovering, with you in it, to start pissing him off.”

Veronica shook her head. “That’s not enough, he could think I’m doing the legwork to keep things covered up.”

Heather smirked, “ _Amateur._ You’ve clearly never had to make a guy jealous before. Watch and learn, Veronica.”

Veronica, a little dazed, just wiped her face off, and brought Heather and Heather back. Heather acted like herself around them, bitching about hospital food, and how she wasn’t even allowed her own clothes, and would it kill them to at least bring her some lipstick. Veronica understood her better, seeing the difference between Heather: jarringly real, and the face she put on. With the others around, she was just as Veronica remembered, even if her voice was hoarse.

After Heather handed her some cherry red lipstick she’d brought in, and Heather had put it on her—probably not allowed, but who cared—She made everyone gather around beside her, Veronica and Heather Duke on one side, and Mac on the other. Duke had to take the photo, because Heather didn’t have her own phone back yet, but it was going on her insta anyway. They all clustered together, forcing smiles, for about four shots, before Heather pulled Veronica in, and kissed her, intentionally leaving bright red marks on her lips and cheeks in the subsequent photos.

Heather Duke squinted at the pictures, then at Heather, “wow Heather, I’d never guessed you were into Veronica,” she remarked, squinting at the pictures, like something didn’t add up. Veronica knew she’d been hiding her sexuality from Heather for years

Heather laughed, “Veronica? Please. I’m screwing with Jesse James, or whatever his name is. Only fair after Veronica ruined my dress.” She snatched the phone long enough to log into her own account, tag the three others, and caption it, “the bitch came back” with at least a couple red hearts and a kiss print. The tags were even more incriminating. Before all the extra tags to get likes were the tags “#justgalsbeingpals, #redishercolourwhenIShare, and finally, #deadgirlsdoitbetter.” She posted it without a second thought, and Veronica watched to see when her phone would blow up.

When nothing happened, she frowned, sending Veronica the pictures and telling her. “Group shot first, then zoom in on one of the shots of us. Caption it something about missing me. Nothing too obvious.”

Veronica obeyed mutely, captioning it “Glad to have you back, Heather,” and only adding one tag #newleaf. It would be enough.

It was a whole 10 minutes after Heather Candler added a blue heart and VS to her bio, and commented a single red kiss emoji. Her phone blew up. “Veronica, where the fuck are you?” Then“yeah, this looks a lot like staying late with Fleming. Fuck, how was I that stupid?” And then “god, that’s why you’re out so late. I knew you didn’t forgive me. Nothing ever changes around here, not unless you make it. I don’t know why I ever thought it was different.” Then a pause and “thanks. You know what, thank you. The pain you’ve caused makes me see it now. I have to change things. I have to fix them, for real now. You can’t change me, veronica, because you can’t change.” Veronica tilted her head at Heather chandler, and squeezed her hand. Reading these was so hard not to steer into them.

“You told me on our night together when you dug into my heart you were dead, Monday 8am. That’s where it started, and that’s where I’m ending it. You thought you could just play with my heart. I’m bleeding, Ronnie, do you even care about me?”

“I guess you don’t. You’re reading these to her, aren’t you? She’s laughing. I hope she chokes, maybe then she’ll be out of your head, and you’ll see how crazy what you’re doing is. Veronica, I love you. Do you think she can give you that?”

“I wish I could hate you. Maybe then you’d stop hurting me. Am I a game to you?”

The texts kept flooding in, and Veronica watched her phone buzz, taking a deep breath and ignoring it. “Monday, 10am,” she told Heather. The other two looked at her, confused.

Heather made a jazz hand, with the hand that wasn’t entwined with Veronica’s, “showtime…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next chapter is the only one I haven't pre-written, because I want to Rewrite it. I wrote it as it happened, and I think instead I want to write it as her telling Heather what she did, with maybe a flashback to some of the dialogue, or some of the scene. I don't want the focus to be on JD, in the end. This story is about Veronica (and me shamelessly milking it for catharsis).


	4. Bulletproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the epilogue: JD is over, and life starts now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys. this piece wasn't a part of the original. the original had the confrontation scene. I just,.. fuck JD, this fic isn't his. It's about Veronica, and it's about there being a life after all that. 
> 
> this was written under exam stress, on migraine drugs, so just bear that in mind. I stand by my ending though, like the last lines.

_Listen up folks, war is over,_

_A brand new sheriff's come to town_

_We are done with acting evil_

_We will lay our weapons down_

_~17 Reprise_

Veronica walked through the door, the arm of her blazer was covered in mud, some of which mixed with blood on her cheek, the indelible red on the other side. She walked with a bit of a limp. Heather would have made a comment about how she looked if she hadn’t forgotten how to breathe. It was like she was seeing a Ghost. She’d waited, breathless and afraid when Veronica and the cops left the hospital. She hadn’t been allowed to hear Veronica on the wire. They’d left when they were done—she didn’t need their protection, she guessed.

No one told Heather fucking anything. She didn’t have a phone, and her parents were, no doubt, out doing all the things they couldn’t do with a dying daughter. The other Heathers cleared out. She fucking hated the wait. When Veronica passed through the door she was on the verge of lying for sedatives so she could wake up to some kind of resolution. All the things she wanted to say, and she stared, wordless.

The first thing she said was, “Heather Duke’s lipstick is fucking indelible.” That wasn’t an admission of relief—even if, it being there meant Veronica couldn’t have gotten hurt too bad.

Veronica doubled over and clutched her ribs, making a choked noise Heather half-knew as laughing. It was that same, hysterical laugh from earlier. When she recovered, she looked like she was on the verge of tears. Heather’s next words weren’t like her. She was bulletproof. She didn’t show fear. In a soft, gentle voice, like she’d use if she found a girl crying in a bathroom at a Remington party (and no one was there to see). “Did he hurt you?”

_Fucking hell._ That was what she asked? Veronica just dumped a domestic terrorist.

Veronica shook her head. “He pulled a gun. This,” she gestured up and down her body, “is from a cop tackling me to get me out of firing range.” Her voice was strangely detached, like it wasn’t yet real. Something was off—maybe it was just shock.

“They get him?” Heather asked, wondering if Veronica was off becausehe was going to kill her, or her family, or come here. Strangely, Heather didn’t feel concerned. Jason Dean didn’t feel real. He felt like some hyperbolical construct. Don’t be a bitch, kiddies, or the trench coat man will put poison in your hangover cure.

Veronica nodded, “Yeah. Hopefully he said enough. I didn’t get long. Forgot I had…you… on my face.” Her words came out slowly, like she was trying to remember how they went. Something was still wrong.

“I’m good luck,” Heather shot back, “must be why so many people are going to be so terribly jealous of you once they see the photos.” She wondered about that. Were people going to think she had such a complex about wanting Veronica Sawyer that she almost died? Were they going to call her that mythic of a closet case? Fuck. She might have to get a girlfriend, or something, just to show she was bullet proof. Veronica _did_ owe her….

“Veronica, you’re not saying something,” she pressed, realizing she’d had time to plan half the optics of whatever pseudo-relationship they were going to have, to prove Heather was _not_ afraid of a bunch of small-town homophobes. Veronica was quieter than she’d been when they first picked her up, and she was figuring out how to act.

“He threatened you,” Veronica admitted, perching on the night stand. She was chewing on her already chapped lip.

“And you’re surprised?” Heather asked, incredulous, “come _on_ Veronica, you can’t expect him _not_ to threaten the bitch he sees all over you face.” Bulletproof, she reminded herself. She was in a hospital with a lot of cameras, and he’d already tried once. The cops would lock this place down, if they had to. She was _not_ going to die, again.

“He talked about _how,”_ Veronica insisted.

_“Oh.”_ One syllable. She’d been threatened before. Ex-somebodies. Losers with grudges. Remmington boys when she didn’t put out. It was whatever, she told herself. She was safe. She was here, in the hospital. _Bullet proof._ The Heather Chandler. She didn’t show fear. She just wasn’t in enough makeup to show it. She looked deflated, somehow. Like there was less of her than usual.

“It wasn’t like the other times. One bullet. A drink. This was worse…” Veronica trailed off, leaving the details to imagination. Heather, in tenth grade had been emailed some guy’s fantasy about photographing her naked in an abandoned warehouse, and then leaving her tied up for the rats. She told herself this was no difference. Whatever, so the freak had detail. Her family had a gate. They had a security system. Her heart rate monitor beeped, and she cursed in her head. Heart rate picked up.

“You act like this is the first pissed off boyfriend I’ve dealt with _Veronica,_ ” she forced her tone neutral.

“Heather, this is serious!” Veronica insisted. When Heather chanced a look at her, a real look, she didn’t like what she saw. Her eyes were red. Her cuticles were bleeding, as she absently picked at them. She wasn’t bulletproof, like Heather could pretend to be. She’d had that monster in her bed for months.

“And?” She asked, “what does it matter what he said, I’m in a hospital full of cameras, and he’s in a cell, hopefully pissing off someone with a teardrop tattoo and nothing to lose.” And if she said it, it had to be real. She could go back to being Heather Fucking Chandler, with Westerberg in her palm.

“He _isn’t,”_ Veronica admitted. Her voice tore out of her body, and Heather’s skin prickled, like it was trying to shrink around her.

_“He got away?”_ She heard herself ask, voice a little too high, a little too hysterical. “Fuck. _Okay_. Why the hell don’t you have an escort with you? Fucking hell, I _will sue_ for negligence.” If she was mad, she didn’t have to be afraid. She was bulletproof. Veronica, not so much. And she was stupid or heroic enough to try to stop him if he went for anyone else. She needed a guard, or something. Some blockhead with a taser and a phone for backup that stood in front of doors. Why was the door open? Why was she here alone, looking like shit?

_“He didn’t.”_

Her voice broke. Heather’s eyebrows knit together a moment. Not in custody. Not escaped. That left one place. They’d had to kill him. _Holy shit._ Veronica was in enough danger that they shot him. She actually saw her asshole ex go down. She was a part. _Fuck._ Heather was just trying to imagine what was going g through her head. All she could tell was that she’d been crying. Was it relief, or was it guilt?

“He shot me.” She tapped her chest, “he actually did it this time. And when he aimed it again, and he didn’t put it down…” she trailed off, her hand still massaging the place on her sternum where she was probably bruised from the bullet. The bullet her fired at her, to kill her. Where her hand was, she’d have been dead before she hit the ground.

That took a second to set in. It was like she was seeing the world through a funhouse mirror, and if she looked the wrong way, there was a space on the table where Veronica should have been. There was a cop, shaking his head, his words muted, because she wasn’t going to fucking hear them. If he’d gone for the head and not the heart, or she hadn’t had a vest…

“Veronica…” her voice died in her throat.

“I didn’t want to see him die,” Veronica admitted, looking down at her hands which seemed to vibrate as she played with the front of her shirt, over her sternum. Rolled the fabric around a finger, and then released it.

Veronica might not have wanted to see him die, but Heather did. He’d killed people before. Almost her. Almost Veronica, who the asshole lied and said he loved. She hoped he rotted. She hoped he turned to dust so fast the worms didn’t even get to taste him.

“Is that fucked up?” Veronica asked, not looking at her.

“Come here,” Heather whispered, scooting over in the bed, and motioning for Veronica to sit down, which she did, almost unthinkingly. “He was a shitty guy. The world is better off not having him on the outside, doing the shit he thinks he can get away with,” her voice softened, “but he didn’t always feel like that, did he? Sometimes he felt like he loved you,” her voice was low, and she took a pause when Veronica sniffled, and tipped her head onto her shoulder. She ran her fingers through Veronica’s muddy, tangled hair, wondering when the last time she’d brushed it was. This really fucked her up.

“Sometimes he didn’t feel like the guy he was. And now whoever he let you think he was is dead too,” Heather told her, “and it doesn’t matter if I tell you that guy was bullshit, or if I tell both that if he loved you he wouldn’t have aimed for you, because you know that,” she didn’t know where her own words were going. With the other Heathers, she usually just told them their exes sucked, and that maybe now they’d get better taste—same as they’d do for her. This wasn’t like that. “But it felt like it was the guy that loved you dying. Right after you had to deal with knowing that he’d kill you. Or me,” she paused, and then talked to the lipstick mark on Veronica’s cheek, because it was hers.

Because it was lucky, right. Bullet proof kiss, and now it had to be okay. “It’s okay that you’re scared. It’s normal that you’re fucked in the head. What matters is that it’s over.”

Veronica repeated those words, her eyes closed, her breath coming out shuddered and shaky. _Over._

She stayed there a long time, until her parents came to pick her up, and the way her mom hugged her, like she was going to fall apart brought on another wave of tears. She was back the next day, no red kiss print, but in the Blazer Heather had gotten her. The day after that, with a couple of flowers that she swore were props for Heather’s instagram, and then had to leave to go get a bigger bouquet, on Heather’s card. The day after that, doing her homework beside Heather’s bed. She told her about what she was reading, and Heather made fun of her for sounding like Heather when she read Moby Dick.

She was there every day until Heather got out. Her eyes were less red, even if the day purple bags under them were still awful. Sleeping sound’t be easy. She cut her hair back to her shoulders, once she actually brushed it. Started _caring_ again. Telling Heather about movie nights, and terrible movies from French class. Outfits people wore, and questions they asked—apparently things had stayed quiet about the school-shooter to be. Heather’s pictures, on the other hand?

When she got back to school, she expected questions about gunpowder, and falling into bushes. Screamed threats and nightmares that replayed frame by frame. That wasn’t what was indelible. Heather Duke’s candy apple red liquid lipstick, and a perfect print on her cheek. A bulletproof girl, larger than life, a scheme and a Hollywood ending.

She supposed, the kiss really was lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I bid adieu this fic I wrote to process my own life. And if it has a continuation, it's going to be a fucking fake-dating AU called Indelible. Which sounds delectable. 
> 
> I've also considered trying to find the lipstick I think is most likely to stay like that, and rn, I'm thinking it was liquid, and she got it on Veronica while it was still wet, which, I can think of a couple that would stain like that. it'll be in the next fic if/when there is one.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Please don't send me reviews telling me JD is better than this. He has it in him to be this, even If this isn't the characterization I've ever in my life opted for previously. If you read the notes at the start, you know why I did this. If not, I am a survivor of emotional abuse. This is ventfic processing it. I can pull receipts for where I derive this characterization from, but I'm very tired, and I'd rather not. 
> 
> No, my own situation was not this extreme, and yes, I am out of it. I have been for more than a year. So also don't worry about me. 
> 
> The next chapter is coming soonish. It's already written and just needs editing.


End file.
